Sandapalooza Shake-Up

by Chris Grabenstein

  “And Grandpa,” I said. “And my mom. Have you bumped into her yet?”

  “No. Not on this show.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, P.T., I’ve been doing sand-sculpting festivals for over twenty years now. You meet a lot of interesting folks along the way. I might’ve met your mom on a gig and not even remember it.”

  “She was in Orlando when you were there! Twelve or thirteen years ago.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. You might’ve met her at that Sandtastic Weekend dealio. She was working at Walt Disney World back then.”

  Travis grinned. “So tell me, P.T.—is your mom pretty?”

  “I guess. I mean, I think so.”

  “Well, then,” said Travis with a wink, “chances are we probably did meet over in Orlando. I’m not one to let a pretty lady pass me by.”

  I knew it!

  This guy had to be my dad.

  But he didn’t want to come right out and say it. He needed to work up to it. I could respect that.

  “So you definitely think I should call the cops?” I said. “Give them Mr. Ortega’s evidence?”

  “What have you got to lose? Except a few more motel guests if you don’t make the call.”

  “But I feel so bad….”

  “You’ve got to do what’s right for your family, son, no matter how it makes you feel. Family should always come first—before anything else in the world.”

  “You’re right. Thanks, Travis.”

  “Anytime, P.T. Anytime.”

  We stood up, dusted off our shorts, and shook hands.

  “Go get ’em…son.”

  I went to grab Gloria and her dad.

  Together, we flew into the lobby to deliver our news.

  “We have our burglar!” I announced to Mom and Grandpa, who were taping a ginormous banner in the front windows: “Stay 2 Nights and the 3rd Night Is Free!”

  I think that’s what it said. I had to read it backward.

  “You guys?” I said, because they wouldn’t stop fiddling with their sign. “This is super important! Clara’s in the clear!”

  “Hold your horses, P.T.,” said Grandpa. “I need more duct tape over here, Wanda.”

  Mom tore some off the roll with her teeth.

  When the hand-lettered roll banner was (finally) crookedly anchored in place, Mom and Grandpa turned around to see what all the fuss was about.

  That was when Mom saw that Gloria and Mr. Ortega were with me.

  “Oh, hi, Manny. I didn’t know you were with the kids.” She tried to quickly pat down her frizzled hair. And tuck in her blouse. And smile.

  “Wanda,” said Mr. Ortega, striding forward with his phone, “we knew this wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but it looks like we’re going to eke out a win!”

  “Oh-kay,” said Mom. “I’m not sure what you’re saying….”

  “Jimbo did it!” I blurted.

  “Huh?” said Mom and Grandpa.

  “Let’s go to the videotape,” said Mr. Ortega, “even though it’s really digits, not tape.”

  “Correct,” said Gloria.

  Mom and Grandpa watched the clip of Jimbo banging on the butler’s door, looking around suspiciously, and digging into his pocket for what we all knew had to be a master key.

  “He looks pretty hinky,” said Grandpa.

  Mr. Ortega arched an eyebrow. “Hinky?”

  “Shifty. Strange. Hinky!”

  “It’s a black-and-white-detective-movie word,” I explained.

  “Gotcha,” said Mr. Ortega.

  “Look, you guys,” said Mom, “Jimbo didn’t do it. This video doesn’t really prove anything.”

  “Um, yes it does,” I said. “It proves Jimbo really wanted to get into that room.”

  “Probably because he knew there was a priceless tiara inside it,” added Gloria.

  “Maybe,” said Mom. “But I don’t think Jimbo would do something like this. And what if you’re wrong? We could ruin Jimbo’s life.”

  “Jimbo,” I said, shaking my head. “Exactly what kind of name is that?”

  “Sounds like an alias to me,” said Gloria. “A name someone who didn’t want you knowing their real name would use.”

  “Or their real police record!” added Grandpa.

  “The video is pretty solid evidence,” said Mr. Ortega.

  Mom was still hesitating. “I don’t know….”

  So I pulled out my heavy artillery: all that stuff Travis had said to me.

  “We’ve got to do what’s right for our family, Mom. What if our cook is also a crook? Just let the deputies see what you saw.”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” said Grandpa.

  So we called the cops.

  The Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office sent over yet another patrol car.

  “You folks have new evidence?” asked the lead deputy.

  “Maybe,” said Mom.

  “Good. We’ve been getting a lot of grief in the media about not solving this case.”

  “Not from me,” said Mr. Ortega.

  “You’re the sports guy,” the deputy said with a smile.

  “Weeknights at eleven,” said Mr. Ortega. “But I’m also moving into breaking news. This just in…”

  He handed the deputies his phone.

  They checked out the video.

  Then they went out back to the Banana Shack to have a word with Jimbo.

  Jimbo looked totally bummed.

  “Deputies,” he said in a soft voice, “I can so totally explain….”

  He was interrupted by a nearby phone chirping “La Cucaracha.”

  “Hey!” cried Darryl, who just happened to be standing at the poolside vending machine, buying himself a cold drink. “That’s my phone!”

  He hurried over to where the deputy was talking to Jimbo.

  Jimbo dug through a pile of red napkins in a plastic basket that was sitting on the counter near some ketchup and mustard squeeze bottles. He pulled out the La Cucaracha-ing phone.

  “Here you go, bro,” said Jimbo, handing the phone to Darryl.

  “You stole it!”

  “What? No way, man…”

  Darryl jammed the phone into his shorts. It stopped ringing.

  “Arrest him!” Darryl shouted at the deputy. “He’s a phone thief!”

  “I didn’t steal any—”

  The deputy held up his hand. “Jimbo, how about we continue this conversation up in Largo? You might want to call your lawyer.”

  “I don’t have a lawyer….”

  “Then we’ll help you find one.”

  The sheriff’s deputies put Jimbo in handcuffs and led him to their cruiser. They helped him duck into the backseat without bumping his head.

  Why were the cops taking our chef to Largo?

  Because that’s where the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office keeps its jail cells.

  “The Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office reports it is questioning a new person of interest in connection with the disappearance of the Twittleham Tiara at the Wonderland Motel on St. Pete Beach,” said the radio newscaster.

  Gloria and I were hanging out with Grandpa in his workshop behind the pool. We were huddled around his paint-splattered radio. Grandpa was duct-taping together a bunch of plastic garbage bags ripped at the seams. He had plans to rig up a homemade jumbo balloon to a leaf blower so we’d have our own wind-dancer puppet—you know, those floppy skinny things bopping in the breeze in front of used-car lots.

  “Ours will say F-R-E-E,” he’d told us. “That’ll make folks slam on their brakes and pull in!”

  “Lord Pettybone’s family heirloom, however, has still not been recovered,” the radio news continued. “As you might recall, His Lordship has promised not to press charges if the tiara is returned by tomorrow.”

  That was exactly what I hoped would happen. Jimbo would confess, turn in the tiara; he’d get out of jail free; and we’d all live happily ever after.

  I was so glad I had taken Travis’
s advice and turned Jimbo in. I was also a little upset with myself for thinking Jimbo was such an awesome addition to the Wonderland team. Guess I’d let my stomach do my thinking for me.

  “In other news,” said the radio, “Florida Fun in the Sun magazine has announced that it is gearing up for its annual Hottest Family Attraction in the Sunshine State contest. Walt Disney World has won for the past several years and—”

  “Feh!” said Grandpa, snapping off the radio. “It’s a rigged contest.”

  “No, it’s not,” I told him. “We have a shot. Don’t forget, this is a famous movie location now!”

  Grandpa shook his head. “Nope, nope, nope. Not anymore. Now it’s just a motel where the cook or the maid will steal your family’s treasured heirlooms and high-end cell phones.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Gloria. “Perception can quickly become reality.”

  “Yeppers,” said Grandpa. “What Gloria said.”

  I was going to argue. Tell them that as soon as Jimbo returned the tiara to Lord Snootypants, everything at the Wonderland would go back to being like it used to be.

  But Mom buzzed Grandpa on his walkie-talkie.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is P.T. with you? I need his help.”

  “He’s here. Gloria, too.”

  “Good. I could sure use both of them.”

  We had a crowd in the lobby, but it was more like a mob.

  Some people were in a hurry to check out.

  A bunch more—mostly rowdy-looking college-aged kids carrying coolers—were eager to check in. They’d seen that FREE banner in our front windows.

  “What if we stay six nights?” asked a guy with blond dreadlocks and tattoos all over his arms, legs, and chest. “Do we get, like, two nights free?”

  “Yes,” said Mom, behind the counter.

  “Great. Make those two free nights our first two nights….”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “Excuse me,” said a man, covering his little daughter’s eyes, because she was staring at the college guy’s tattoos. A lot of them were skulls. With daggers in them. “We just need to check out!”

  “You people got any food?” hollered a girl who was with the tattoo guy. “I’m starving.”

  “P.T.? Gloria?” said Mom when she looked up from the computer long enough to see us.

  “Yeah?” I said. “How can we help?”

  “This gentleman needs his bags taken to his car,” she said. “He’s checking out.”

  “Yo,” said the tattoo guy. “We’re checking in. We need baggage assistance, too.”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem, sir.”

  A family with what looked like a dozen kids between the ages of zero and twelve (three of them in what smelled like dirty diapers) marched into the lobby.

  “We want one of those free rooms!” announced the clan’s dad, pointing at the banner.

  “Just one?” said Gloria. “There’s fourteen of you.” Gloria’s very good with math.

  “You’re right. We’re gonna need a rollaway bed, too. And a crib.”

  “Fine,” said Mom. “We’ll put you in the Cassie McGinty Suite. It has three rooms.”

  “But we’re only going to pay for one!”

  “Fine…”

  “Hey,” said the guy with all the tattoos. “We were here first. Give us the suite.”

  “Yeah,” said his girlfriend. “Wait in line, bub.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the man with all the squirming kids, one of whom kept cranking our gumball machine’s handle to see if anything free would tumble out. “But the longer we wait, the more this lobby’s gonna smell like baby poop.”

  “Do you folks sell diapers?” asked the mom.

  “No,” said Gloria.

  “Well, toss me one of those souvenir T-shirts. This is an emergency.”

  “I just want to check out!” cried the other guy, taking his hands off his daughter’s eyes so he could fan the foul air underneath his nose. “Please? Can we leave? I’m begging you….”

  “P.T.? Help everybody with their bags.”

  “On it!”

  “And then,” said Mom, “I need you guys to handle the Banana Shack.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m busy here,” she explained. “Grandpa’s helping clean rooms. I need to start the laundry. Jimbo’s in jail. You two need to run the restaurant!”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Glad to pitch in, Ms. Wilkie,” added Gloria.

  She and I had watched a couple of episodes of MasterChef Junior on TV. Running our own restaurant might be fun.

  “Is the food half price, too?” asked the mom, bouncing her squealing poopy-diapered baby in her arms.

  Then again, maybe not.

  After everybody’s suitcases were where they wanted them, Gloria and I headed to the Banana Shack.

  We scrounged around in the pantry, found Jimbo’s leftovers in the fridge, and checked out the ingredients we had on hand.

  “So,” I said, “remember that kid who won MasterChef Junior last season? The girl with the backward baseball cap?”

  Gloria nodded. “Her appetizer was sake-marinated shrimp with a seaweed and sea-bean salad.”

  “Do you know how to cook any of that stuff?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you ever cooked anything?”

  “Macaroni and cheese from a box.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I know how to cook.”

  “Excellent, Chef,” said Gloria, because on the TV show, everybody always calls each other Chef. “What do you know how to make?”

  “Hot dogs. Grilled cheese. I can kind of do a burger.”

  “What about French fries?”

  I gestured to a pan filled with precooked curly fries. “We’re in luck. Jimbo already made a batch.”

  Gloria sampled a fry. “They’re cold. He probably cooked these yesterday.”

  “So? If anybody orders fries, we can warm them up in the microwave.”

  The first customers to belly up to the Banana Shack bar were the tattooed dude and his “starving” girlfriend.

  “Hey, kid?”

  “Yes, sir?” I said.

  “We want a couple cheeseburgers.”

  “Excellent choice. I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57, and French fried potatoes.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s from a Jimmy Buffett song.”

  “We don’t want a song,” screeched his girlfriend. “We want food!”

  “We’re hungry, too!” hollered the man with the dozen kids. Maybe to prove his point, one of his older sons picked a booger out of his nose and popped it into his mouth. The dad grabbed a laminated menu and basically ordered some of everything. “Gimme thirteen burgers, this smoked-fish dip, conch fritters, grouper nuggets, a chicken quesadilla, some hot wings, and a basket of fries and onion rings.”

  “Add in some pureed carrots for Charlene,” said the mom. “She’s a baby. She can’t eat grouper nuggets, Joel.”

  The dad nodded. “I’ll have some pureed carrots, too. Mix ’em into a vanilla milk shake.”

  Gloria and I nearly puked. Then we went to work.

  It was a food fiasco.

  Our only hope was to change everybody’s order to something we could actually cook.

  I went out front to address our hungry crowd, remembering Grandpa’s advice about the power of a good story.

  “You know, folks, I forgot to mention our Sunday special: Fantastically Famous Floridian Frankfurters Flambé!”

  “What are those?” asked the tattooed guy.

  “Handcrafted sausages that sizzle like the sand in the sun. Each juicy link is topped with sunny yellow mustard and sea-green pickle relish. The bun is as soft as an inflatable pool float. It’s like eating a weeklong vacation on the Gulf of Mexico, only slightly less salty. Yes, our famous Florida dogs will definitely put your mouth in a sunsh
ine state of mind! The one thing missing from your official Florida meal is orange juice, which is why we serve our hot dogs with an Orange Sproke.”

  “What’s a Sproke?” asked the tattooed man.

  “Only the most refreshing beverage ever created here at the Banana Shack!”

  Everybody was in. We served two dozen hot dogs, several trays of microwaved fries, and sixteen cups of Orange Sproke. (That’s Coke, Sprite, and Fanta Orange all mixed together.)

  Our diners were happy.

  We could relax. The lunch rush was over.

  But then we got our first room service order.

  “Yeah, this is room 228,” slobbered a voice on the other end of the line when I snatched up the phone behind the counter of the Banana Shack. “I’d like to place a room service order.”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem, sir.”

  I grabbed a pen and a ruled green pad.

  “Okay, I’ll have a couple burgers. Some oysters, with extra cocktail sauce.”

  I covered the mouthpiece and turned to Gloria. “Do we have oysters?”

  She dragged a wooden bushel filled with gray shellfish out from under the sink.

  “I think so. But they’re totally raw,” she reported.

  “That’s how you’re supposed to eat them.”

  “Ewww. Gross.”

  “Yeah. Slimy, too.” I went back to the phone. “Yes, sir. We have oysters.”

  “Are they fresh?” the guy asked.

  “Um, they haven’t been opened.”

  “Bring me two dozen. And one of those hot dogs everybody’s eating. No, make that three. And some fries. Toss in onion rings, too.”

  I had to flip to the next page of the order pad.

  Gloria threw everything together and loaded it onto a huge tray that I sort of balanced on my shoulder for the steep mountain climb up to the second floor.

  The man in room 228, who looked like a bodybuilder who’d already bulked up, started grabbing oysters, shucking them open with a butter knife, and slurping them down before I even finished setting the tray on his kitchenette table.